by Jon Mayhew
Dakkar banged his head on the doorway to the engine room at the rear of the Nautilus, snapping himself back to the present. The engine room hummed with power and Dakkar’s hair lifted from his scalp as he entered. A blue light filled this chamber even though the Voltalith lay housed in a round flat case in the centre of the engine. Under Oginski’s tuition, Dakkar was beginning to understand the function of each of these machine parts, but at the moment it looked like a confusing bird’s nest of wire, cogs and levers all ticking and buzzing with energy. Two thick tubes coiled from the case that held the Voltalith. This was how Oginski harnessed the power of the electric rock somehow; it flowed through copper wire wrapped in thick Indian rubber.
‘If I can use the power of the Voltalith . . .’ Dakkar murmured, slipping on thick rubber gauntlets. Oginski insisted that they wore these whenever they handled the engine parts. Dakkar had already witnessed the destructive power of the Voltalith and the protective qualities of the gauntlets.
Dakkar disconnected the two thick rubber hoses from the flywheel of the engine. The whine of the Nautilus’s engine slowly died and Dakkar felt his stomach lurch as the submarine stopped her forward motion and began a slow downward arc.
Electricity from the Voltalith spat and crackled at the ends of each cable. A blinding blue light bathed the whole room, and even through the thick gauntlets Dakkar could feel his knuckles and joints beginning to stiffen and fizz with the charge.
For a second, Dakkar hesitated. What if it doesn’t work? What if Oginski isn’t truly dead and this kills him? He took one last look at the white face, made all the more deathly by the livid bruise and the red blood.
Uttering a silent prayer, Dakkar plunged the cable into Oginski’s chest. Sparks leapt and danced around the two of them as Oginski’s whole body arched and shook. His face tightened into a rictus grin. Every muscle in Oginski’s body knotted and Dakkar heard a long, rattling breath.
He pulled back, stumbling against the engine as Oginski’s body shook, flopping on the floor like a landed fish. Then he lay still.
Dakkar leaned against the engine, the two cables still humming in his fists. I’ve failed, he thought as hot tears welled from his eyes and a deep, wracking sob forced its way up from his stomach.
Oginski gave an enormous gasp and his eyes flew open. Dakkar leapt in surprise, nearly dropping the cables. The big man fell back on the floor, panting for breath.
‘Dakkar?’ he said, his voice feeble and cracked. ‘What happened?’
‘Oginski! You’re alive!’ Dakkar threw himself down next to his mentor and hugged him awkwardly, trying not to touch him with the cables.
Oginski groaned. ‘Of course I am,’ he said, wincing. ‘Are . . . we safe?’
‘We are. Let’s get you to a bunk,’ Dakkar replied.
He hastily reconnected the thick cables and then helped Oginski to his feet. Oginski shuffled through the sub, wincing as he went. At one point he stopped, retching blood and falling heavily against the walls of the Nautilus. Finally, he collapsed on to the small pallet bed in his tiny cabin.
‘I’ll get the Nautilus to the surface and then we need to find you a doctor,’ Dakkar said, easing Oginski’s head on to a pillow.
The journey back to England took Dakkar several days longer than he expected. On the voyage out to Elba, they had taken turns to captain the Nautilus, allowing each other to rest. With Oginski unconscious below, Dakkar was now the only crew member and had to do everything himself. Despite his best efforts at dressing the wound on Oginski’s shoulder, it grew hot and gave off a horrible smell. He became feverish and would drift in and out of consciousness, shouting deliriously sometimes, crying for help at others. Each time Dakkar had to surface and hurry to Oginski’s cabin.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dakkar reassured him, wiping his brow with a damp cloth. ‘We’ll soon have you back in the castle.’ The castle was the name given to their home, a tower house that stood alone on a bleak, Cornish cliff.
‘No!’ Oginski said, grabbing Dakkar’s sleeve. ‘Doctor Walbridge. He’s the only one I trust . . .’
‘But what about Doctor Ives? He lives close to the castle,’ Dakkar said, easing Oginski back on to his pillow.
‘I know Walbridge of old,’ Oginski said, his breathing heavy. ‘I can trust him. Ives is a gossip and a quack!’
‘Very well,’ Dakkar said, keeping his voice soft and soothing. ‘Where can I find this Doctor Walbridge?’
‘Lyme Regis,’ Oginski replied, his voice becoming drowsy as the effort of speaking became too much. ‘Go to Cutter’s Cove, just west of Lyme . . .’ The big man’s eyelids drooped and soon his snores filled the tiny cabin.
Dakkar sighed and shook his head as he returned to the helm. He slumped into the captain’s seat. He had only snatched a few hours of sleep since they’d escaped from the island of Elba. The stretch of the Mediterranean Sea they approached now was cluttered with naval vessels from all over the world, not to mention pirates from the coast of Africa.
To add to Dakkar’s worries, the stresses of their Elba adventure were beginning to show on the Nautilus. Water seeped gently through the planks in a number of places where musket balls had lodged in the wood and the engine made a strange clattering sound. Dakkar didn’t dare submerge too deep as the pressure drove water in at a faster rate. An inch of seawater sloshed around the floors already. Dakkar’s attempts at bailing some out proved successful but as he sailed on his work was quickly undone.
But if I’m to get through the Strait of Gibraltar, I’ll have to submerge, he thought, biting his lip. The strait was the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea, an eight-mile-wide channel of sea between Africa and the Rock of Gibraltar, which bristled with British warships and cannon.
Dakkar sailed on, travelling at night and trying to rest during the day. He stopped regularly to check on the ailing Oginski.
‘Remember, Dakkar,’ Oginski croaked, ‘sail deep out of the strait . . . The Mediterranean flows out into the Atlantic . . .’
‘I know, Oginski, I will, I promise,’ Dakkar said, giving his mentor a sip of water.
Oginski had explained to Dakkar before they’d set off for Elba that the waters of the Mediterranean were more salty and dense than those of the Atlantic. As a result, the waters of the Mediterranean sank to a greater depth and flowed out into the Atlantic while the Atlantic waters flowed into the Mediterranean above them.
As they neared Gibraltar, Dakkar saw more and more ships. He kept as far from other vessels as possible and submerged only when he had to. He saw American flags, Portuguese, French and British. In the far distance, black outlines cruised the horizon and Dakkar wondered if they were Barbary pirates, searching for victims to attack and plunder, selling their captives as slaves in far off Timbuktu.
Finally, he was forced to stay submerged and tried to ignore the steady trickling noise that told him the sea was coming in. The huge silhouettes of warships and merchant vessels blocked out the weak sunshine that struggled to penetrate the water. Dakkar gritted his teeth and sank the Nautilus even deeper.
He felt the current of the Mediterranean push the sub out towards the open ocean and switched the engine to full power. Stumbling a little at the sudden lurch forward, Dakkar managed a grin at the speed at which they now travelled. It grew warmer in the cramped cabins and Dakkar stared out through the portholes, watching fish skim by, listening to the water bubble against the hull of the submarine.
Soon they were in Atlantic waters. Oginski cried out again, forcing Dakkar to stop the Nautilus and hurry down to his mentor’s cabin. The count sat up in his bed, blankets scrunched around his lower half, sweat dripping from his forehead. He gripped Dakkar’s arm, making him wince. His hand felt clammy and cold.
‘Cutter’s Cove, Dakkar,’ Oginski hissed, shaking. ‘The men there will help me . . . they are loyal to me . . . Don’t be afraid . . .’
‘Oginski, you’re exhausting yourself,’ Dakkar said, trying to pull his wrist free. ‘Don’t worry –
I’ve fought off pirates, remember?’ He smiled at the sweet memory of blowing up Captain Jean Lafitte’s cabin in a Louisiana swamp.
‘Worse than pirates,’ Oginski gasped, his eyes wide. ‘Be careful!’
He fell back into a rambling, delirious sleep, leaving Dakkar to wonder what could be worse than pirates.
Chapter Six
Cutter’s Cove
The Nautilus bounced and skipped over the waves, making Dakkar’s stomach leap and lurch. After more than a week of stolen sleep, bailing the Nautilus and patching up the worsening leaks, his head pounded and his eyelids felt like lead.
Oginski murmured and muttered in his sleep. He took water and a little bread mushed into porridge but didn’t fully wake.
Dakkar slumped on the wheel of the Nautilus, nodding and startling back to wakefulness. He rubbed his eyes and squinted through the porthole at the grey line on the horizon.
‘England,’ he whispered. Then he jumped out of his seat. ‘England! Oginski we’ve made it!’
Dakkar leapt around the cabin, laughing and cheering. Then he stopped. Oginski couldn’t reply. Even if I get him to Cutter’s Cove, will he make it? Dakkar thought.
He hurried down to the cabin, where Oginski lay huddled in the screwed-up blankets. The smell of infection and stale sweat made Dakkar’s stomach churn but he crouched beside him.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t let you die.’
Ships plied the sea nearby as Dakkar approached Cutter’s Cove and he took a huge risk in not submerging. If I submerged again, he thought, kicking at the water that played around his ankles, I’m not sure I’d be able to surface again.
The cove had been drawn in on the chart that Dakkar had found. It clearly wasn’t on any of the charts used by the navy or merchant ships. It appeared to be very sheltered, a small inlet carved into steep cliffs. Dakkar shivered at the thought of entering the port so openly. Who is there? And why isn’t this cove marked on the maps?
The sea battered against the cliffs here and at first Dakkar stared blankly for some indication of the cove’s entrance. The Nautilus rocked on the waves now they were close to shore and Dakkar had to keep steering her away from the treacherous rocks that jutted from the sea.
As they rounded a headland, he noticed an incredibly narrow gap in the cliff. The water heaved up and down in this channel, which seemed to lead deep inland.
Surely that can’t be it, he thought. We’ll be smashed to pieces if we go in.
But after forty minutes of scouting along the cliffs and dodging sharp rocks, Dakkar resigned himself to the fact that the steep, narrow inlet had to be the entrance to Cutter’s Cove.
He turned the Nautilus round and steered for the gap in the cliffs. The sub seemed to fly up on the waves’ crests and Dakkar could see the rough rock face of the wall pass just a few inches from the hull.
The waves dropped suddenly and Dakkar’s stomach flipped as the Nautilus plummeted. Outside, he heard rock scraping along the planking. Dakkar screwed his eyes shut and nudged the wheel slightly, bringing her to the middle of the narrow channel.
Once more Dakkar felt the Nautilus being lifted and again the cliff edge clunked against her sides. Through the porthole, he could see the end of the channel and a strip of grey sky. A wave suddenly smacked against the front of the craft, sending her to port and the side of the entrance. A huge bang echoed throughout the Nautilus and a fine spray of water hissed through the planks close to Dakkar’s head.
Dakkar gave a grunt as he wrestled with the wheel and brought the sub back under control before she could scrape the full length of the cliff. The Nautilus gave a shudder and then leapt into the air as she bounced over another wave.
The walls of the sea channel vanished behind Dakkar and left him staring at a tiny cove. It made him think of a huge sea cave whose ceiling had collapsed, leaving a deep hole. He could see now how the cliffs rose to meet the sea, forming a wall at the front of the cove, and behind it how the land sloped away from the cliffs. The sides of the cove were steep and a few stone cottages and sheds clung to them, looking as if they could fall into the water at any moment. Here and there, Dakkar could see caves punched into the cliff face. A long stone jetty reached out into the sea, which surged and swirled in and out. It was early March but grey winter clouds still hung above him, making everything dull and lifeless.
Dakkar steered for the jetty, where a small group of men had gathered with ropes and grappling irons to bring the Nautilus in. They carried rifles too, Dakkar noticed. For a moment, he wanted to turn and flee. These men had seen too much and Oginski had said they were worse than pirates. Dakkar’s heart thumped.
As he approached the jetty, Dakkar flinched as the first hook thumped on to the top of the Nautilus, then another. Dakkar felt the sideways pull as the men brought her alongside the jetty. He shut the engine down and clambered up the ladder. The thud of boots told him that the men were clambering on board to meet him.
Dakkar threw open the hatch at the top of the tower and found a rifle pointing at him once again. He froze and felt the blood drain from his face.
Three men perched round the edge of the tower. They were tall and strongly built like Oginski, with stern, scarred and weather-beaten faces. Two wore moustaches waxed to a point at the ends while the other sported a thick beard. They reminded Dakkar of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard.
But what made Dakkar freeze in fear was the emblem on each of their black uniforms. A large letter C, a trident and a snake. The symbol for Cryptos.
Chapter Seven
Warriors from the Past
One of the men stood taller than the rest. His bald head and thick beard distinguished him from the others, who wore berets and moustaches. He stared down at Dakkar, his lip curling.
‘Keep that rifle trained on him, Serge,’ the man said. ‘If the boy so much as blinks, blow his head off. Bolton, get inside that boat, see if anyone else is lurking down there.’
‘Aye, Cutter,’ said another of the men, a pistol ready in his fist. He clambered past Dakkar and down through the hatch.
This can’t be! Dakkar looked from Cutter to the rifle pointed at him. What shall I do? Where are the men who are meant to be loyal to Oginski?
‘Please, you’ve got to help me,’ Dakkar said, clenching his fists then freezing as the rifle barrel twitched.
‘You’ve come to the wrong place for help, my friend,’ said Cutter, his laugh echoed by the men around him.
‘My mentor, Count Oginski, he lies below on the brink of death,’ Dakkar pleaded. ‘He told me to come here. He needs a doctor.’
The mention of Oginski turned Cutter’s face pale. Serge lowered the rifle for a second and then brought it up again. A mutter of consternation rippled among the men who had crowded around.
‘Cutter!’ Bolton called from the tower. ‘Come quickly!’
Cutter lunged towards Dakkar, making the boy flinch, but the big man barged past him and clambered down into the Nautilus. Dakkar made to follow him but Serge edged forward and jabbed the rifle barrel against his cheek.
‘Don’t move until Cutter says you can,’ Serge hissed, and eased back a little.
A moment later, Cutter’s huge form emerged from the hatch with Oginski over his shoulder. Dakkar realised just how much Oginski had wasted away during the voyage. Cutter was a big man and obviously strong, but even so he carried Oginski out of the hatch easily.
‘Is he alive, Cutter?’ Serge asked, taking his eyes from Dakkar.
‘Barely,’ Cutter said, his face grim. ‘We need to get him to Walbridge as quickly as possible. Piper, ready a carriage. Serge, bring that boy to the cottage. He has some questions to answer.’
A small man scurried off ahead of them towards the cottages and Cutter climbed down off the Nautilus with Oginski still over his shoulder. Serge glowered at Dakkar from under bushy eyebrows and flicked the rifle to the left, indicating that Dakkar should step on to the stone jetty and follow Cutter. Dakkar e
ased himself down and stumbled towards the huddle of cottages. The men walked alongside him in silence and, every now and then, Serge would jab Dakkar in the back with the gun barrel.
Seagulls screamed and wheeled around the rock face that rose above them. At the end of the jetty, Dakkar could see a cobbled quay with the small cottages and storehouses made of neat grey stone. Behind them a path wound up to the cliff top.
Oginski groaned feebly, his arms swinging loose. Tears stung Dakkar’s eyes at the sight of the great man brought so low. Cutter pushed a cottage door open and disappeared inside. Dakkar followed, despite everything, enjoying the warmth that washed over him.
The door led into the cottage’s kitchen and living area. Clean, scrubbed tables stood in regimented rows on a stone floor off which you could eat it was so well scrubbed. Everything about the room barked discipline and organisation to Dakkar. Jars and bottles stood to attention on the shelves in neat rows. Maps and charts covered the walls.
Cutter swept away the plates and cutlery set out on one of the tables nearest the fire that blazed in the hearth. He lay Oginski down gently, cradling his head. The men crowded round, pulling their caps off.
‘Will he be all right, Cutter?’ asked one of the men, his eyes wide.
‘He looks so pale,’ another added, shaking his head.
Dakkar watched in disbelief as yet another wiped a tear from his eye.
‘We’ll see,’ Cutter said, and tore at Oginski’s filthy shirt. ‘Get warm water and fresh clothes. Jackson, clean and dress that wound as best as you can. It will soon be dark and we’ll travel to Lyme then.’
Cutter turned to Dakkar and pointed to a table in the corner of the room. Dakkar followed him and sat down on a wooden stool.
‘So you are the illustrious Prince Dakkar,’ Cutter said, folding his arms and sitting back in the chair opposite Dakkar. ‘The one our leader hopes will save the civilised nations from Cryptos.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Dakkar muttered, feeling his face grow warm. ‘Oginski isn’t your leader!’
